Bloke walks into a pub

Sunday 30th October 2011
We visited the farmer’s market at Stockport Town Hall where Ed’s school had a stall. He decorated a book mark before taking more of an interest in the stands which sold wares of a sweeter disposition. We bought some cheeses from the Cheshire Cheese stand, some Arabic bread and, reluctantly, a decorated sweet lolly as a gesture of good will to the stall holders after Ed had wrapped his mits around it.

The cheeses were higher in price, but innovative, and we had a nice chat with the stall holders about the history and status (endangered) of the region’s cheese. I was happy to part with the cash. They’re passionate, attentive and informative.
I had these in mind after visiting my nearest pub in the afternoon. A sign outside promised ‘all live sport shown’ and I was keen to watch Leeds Utd vs Cardiff City. I had been here before and knew that I wasn’t going to get smiley service but, at best, hoped that they would be brusquely co-operative in dealing with me. When I went in, the screen aired non sports to a disinterested band of punters. In another room, I called in, a local lifted his gaze and held it. I then went and spoke to the bar maid who said she would speak to the landlord in the cellar. She returned to confirm it would be shown. I paid for a pint and sat down where the screen continued on its channel unchanged.

I wasn’t looking forward to prompting the landlord. He was every bit as shaven headed and hard of expression as the last time I visited here. He initially insisted the game was later, then switched between a couple of channels, lingering on one which was a repeat of one of yesterday’s premiership matches with rolling foreign text. ‘It’s not on’, he said, with a look that said if I insisted otherwise, I’ll be taken to the cellar where the resulting pounding will result in enough tumbling barrels to fill an episode of Starsky and Hutch. I drank the pint quickly and was glad to leave.

My subsequent entries into Edgeley pubs suggested I have all the dramatic entrance of a cowboy huckster for all the heads that turned simultaneously. Received wisdom of my associates is that the Royal Oak is the most positive of the bunch, at least on the main street, and this proved to be the case. The staff amiably turned to the channel after a punter piped up ‘it’s on 401’. I turned down their offer of turning up the commentary – the Stranglers’ No More Heroes was playing on the speakers. There was some stirring and three of us shuffled up to watch this regionally unfashionable fixture. I sat back against the draped Halloween decorations and the pints were 25p less the local pub from which I had departed.

It’s easy to knock pubs that seem a closed shop of hardy regulars, to which the landlord may have said 'He thinks he can show up and watch what he wants' but on this same day I spoke to neighbours who also had the experience of finding the place similarly unfriendly. I have also had a conversation with someone on a bus who has passed on the pithy advice of ‘don’t go there’. If this is spread out through our community, that’s a lot of service that the pub is missing out on.

Gran Alicant

Saturday 20th August 2011

The four of us boarded the plane from Manchester to Alicante. This was the first time in the air for Sam, aged one, and he sat on my lap for the duration of the flight. Unsure, when the plane swept off the ground, he clung to me tightly. I sought to keep him entertained by reading to him but every time he grabbed the book out of my hands and lobbed it away. First to go was our ‘Safety on Board’ laminated card. It was followed by ‘Goldilocks’ and ‘Learn Spanish’. The lady who was struck by the last book might have thought it was thrown as a headstrong gesture by someone with strong views on learning the country’s language. I apologised (in English).

In the taxi from the airport, having shown the driver the address, we struggled to relay what turns to take to get us to our destination. Jan had an idea having previously viewed Google Maps but made the mistake of saying turn left in Spanish instead of turn tight. Eventually, as the taxi glided aimlessly around, we spotted the all important road. Watched by bare chested but unthreatening locals we unloaded our stuff into an uphill terraced house. It had an veranda and inside a marble stair case. Some thoughtful previous vacationers had left water, beer and wine.

Propelled two hours on when adjusting for time, we stepped out to find somewhere for an evening meal. Alongside the terraces were fortified apartments off quiet roads lined with sand smudged, sun-guarded cars. Occasionally we’d be aware of a lingering smell of toilets in the air. At the Carabassi Centre, the cuisine of choice pointed to a big Northern European presence: Belgian, Dutch as well as the familiar themed English restaurants. We settled at a restaurant with native cuisine. A roaming guy was playing Spanish classics on an accordion ticking some boxes for our stay in this country. Food here was good but pricey although the beer was affordable. A group of grown people in Pirates of the Carribbean dress boisterously trailed down one end of the restaurant’s outdoor tables before showing up again, some minutes later, similarly animated on the path that lined the front of the restaurants. What this was about, I don’t know; I didn’t spot any promotions on rum.

Sunday 21st August 2011

‘Why use traveller’s cheques when you can use a Travelex card?’ asked the currency desk lady, a week before, in the Sainsbury’s booth. She convincingly outlined the merits of such a card – basically getting it charged up with money without the charges that are picked up along the way. The problem was that having swiped through our shopping at Gran Alicant’s ALDI store, the girl at the till gave said card a doubtful look and said, in Spanish, that the store doesn’t take this. Our shopping was put to one side and Jan went to look for a bank cashpoint to try and withdraw our untapped cash. I sat on the store’s bench with the two boys and watched the same check out girl fielding questions from Brits, talking at cross languages and wearing the sane weary expression. During our stay here it took several shops at this place for our croissants and water before she gave anything approaching a smile.

We had caught the road train to the town’s ‘GA Centre’ and back. We spoke to an elderly couple, behind us in the queue, who said of the train that ‘this is great’. And they were right. There are seated carriages, sheltered but with plastic curtains rolled up which enable us to catch a pleasant breeze while the train is moving. The driver, Paco, makes regular use of the choo choo whistle and gave waves aplenty including to some people who look surprised at receiving them. It conjured up an Edwardian era of friendliness.

Back at the house as we tried to pull out the outside canopy for some shade, a looping rope lofted upwards and out of view, making the thing stuck and unusable. I think the previous vacationers may have left it all wrong or so I’m claiming. We tried to retrieve the rope with an elongated hook on a pole from below, and up above from the balcony, but to no avail.

In the evening, we went to a restaurant on the Carabassi Centre called Sand Hills. A British themed place, it offered attractive two course options on a blackboard, the sort of offers usually missed back home. We had a credibly ‘authentic Indian’ option. We turned down a guy who was selling pirate DVDs who looked known to the diners and was doing a roaring trade. From the house we had already decided to watch a Educating Rita DVD. We also listened to some early Elvis Costello. It takes a break away in sunny climes to enjoy the merits of turn of the decade 70/80s British culture.

Monday 22nd August 2011

We began what was to become a fairly routine day: Jan and Ed went to the pool in the morning; Sam and I went up the hill to the supermarket for our water and fresh foods. In the stifling middle of the day August heat, we would be indoors until tentatively stepping out, covered in sun cream, at 4pm.

The hill to the store was nicknamed ‘Cardiac Hill’ by the locals but I quite enjoyed pushing Sam up there in the buggy. Never the less, things were exposed and it was advisable to be out of it as we approached midday. I bought mainly Spanish based food and drink for this evening’s barbecue to take the edge out of the inevitably higher priced Euro purchases. The walk back proved to be a headache as having descended for what I thought would be the easier part of coming down the hill, it dawned on me that Sam was missing his Mr Men hat. Turning round, I was dismayed to see that he had thrown it off when we were at the precipice of the hill. No-one could be hailed who could bring the sun hat down with them. Thus, with two bags now weighing heavily on the buggy, I turned round, grumbling and sweaty, and trundled back up the hill to retrieve the hat.

Tuesday 23rd August 2011

We had put up a stairgate to prevent any mishaps on the marble staircase. Freed from acting as a bouncer for this gateway to the steps, I turned my attentions to preventing Sam accessing the cupboards containing cleaning chemicals and various fragile types of porcelain and china. For the most part I managed this – there was only a chipped egg cup to answer for by the end of our stay. This was wearing and I was glad when the time came to head out to the pool.

Everyone living or staying in the sets of terraces that back onto it could use this pool. In the daytime it was full of Northern Europeans like us, with the locals coming on the scene for a dip after work and weekends. Ed had already got accustomed and been in the water several times with Jan. Sam, however, was initially unsure and grumpy. Seeing this, another child came over with a water filled purple balloon and gave it to Sam. He returned later, on two occasions, to ask if he’s still playing with the balloon so much so that when it later burst (through catching the tips of my fingers), I think I felt more responsibility over this than I did with the chipped egg cup.

Wednesday 24th August 2011

We thought about fixing the outside canopy that was still in a state of disrepair and rang our local contact number. A lady told us that she’d see if she could find a chap called Sylvester to come round with a ladder. About this time we also received a recorded message from our boiler insurers, Homeserve, who told us that we were not covered for the type of job required to fix our intermittent hot water problem back at home. This was all a pain; we certainly didn’t want to be dwelling on intractable maintenance jobs while on holiday.

In the evening we felt we needed some excitement - so we went to Belgian Restaurant. It was still sweltering heat which was a bugbear with the staff – a brief period of rainfall earlier in the week had already acquired something of a folk legend. For a bit of shade, they pulled out the canopy which we watched with some envy. On two occasions, I needed to change a nappy – going inside the air conditioned restaurant was pleasant but the toilet was airless and I felt myself sweating while changing the whiffy nappy.

Moving on to the food – it was rather good. There was a Tuesday tapas offer. I had a veggie lasagne, not as boring as this non meat staple usually is - it had a bit of a ricotta take, which I was told was from a Belgian recipe.

Thursday 25th August 2011

The temperature seemed to rise several more notches today. Sam and I got to the top of Cardiac Hill to find that many of the houses had left bottles of water outside, possibly as a gesture of hospitality for thirsty pedestrians. It was a relief to step inside the air conditioned Co op store at the top, a relief palpable among the shoppers streaming in. I think I lingered in the supermarket – a first – drawing on the relative pleasure of this cooler environment. On the way back down the hill, Sam again lobbed the hat away, initially un-noticed by me, but there was, luckily, someone coming down who was able to hand it back without me having to turn around.

In the middle of the day, it was a longer stay inside. We hauled out the house’s model collection to keep the boys entertained. It was a relief to get to the pool. For the first time that the water hadn’t initially felt cold.

Friday 26th August 2011

We were staying a fifteen minute walk from the beach but, up until this evening, we hadn’t ventured there. At the restaurant, the enchiladas went down well, as did the boys’ Mexican pizza, and with a sense of wellbeing we decided to head to the sea front. It was dusk as we ventured to it via a nature trail and a drift of people were walking back. I had been weary about walking long distances in sandals; I walk a lot and prefer the air cushion bounce of footwear but, over this holiday, I became acclimatised. Back home, the rare bits of sunshine bring out your shoulder thrusting sinewy Mancs; there’s nothing menacing about people in sandals: it’s harder to swagger and carry an air of intimidation as you shuffle onwards.

Having reached the beach, another tick box, we returned to the Carabassi Centre for a drink. The guy selling pirate DVD was active and was I about to decline when I halted myself at the thought that we had exhausted our interest in the house’s DVD collection. We bought two.

Saturday 27th August 2011

In one of our errands up the hill, Jan suggested that I break up the journey by stopping at a café bar. Handily placed at the top was L’Espigo overlooking the hills with railings and rolled up plastic curtains. I asked for a coffee and got a orange juice for Sam (although I was later to find that the purity of the juice was a bit too acidic and caused him red bottom). The staff were friendly and would subsequently wave to us when we passed with the shopping.

In the café, I saw a couple who used the pool. I asked them if they knew of a playground for the kids (the house owners told me there was one with outdoor gym facilities) really just wanting to start a conversations with someone in the holiday community. They thought that there may be a park further on the right hand side of road. The guy said he calls in this café bar to get away. When I found the park, it was hardly the sun faded set of facilities I was expecting. There was a zig zagged trail path which unfurled into a well maintained park. It had an onsite warden who was presently pruning a rosemary plant. There was a kiosk where it would have been possible to sit and have a beer while watching Sam play (I didn’t succumb, having the job of seeing that the sunhat stays on Sam’s head). I wonder if this would last in Spain – my local park at home has desisted from a lot of maintenance like planting flowers under spending reductions; here’s hoping parks like this withstand any coming austerity cuts.

In the evening we went to a ground floor restaurant where it was soon apparent that the staff were overwhelmed by the number of people needing to be served. Regularly, a group would go to sit down at a table next to us to be told that there is an hour’s wait until the next meal. They all decided to go elsewhere. A hungry Ed and Sam soon got restless and hungry. When the meals eventually came, Jan pushed it away on realising that it contained mushrooms, a source of allergy. When this was mentioned to a waiter, he consulted the chef and then confirmed, yes, there were mushrooms. The waiter was already at another table when Jan asked ‘Is that it?’ A long exchange followed with the staff, incorporating comments about their attitude and Jan was refunded the money for the barely touched meal. At least we spoke to a Welsh couple who were able to tell us where to go to catch the coach to Santa Polo.

This restaurant seemed to lose heart thereafter. I noticed it was half full the next day and then subsequently closed.

Sunday 28th August 2011

Sam was a great hit at the pool today. He took an interest in the birds that were tottering around on the tiles by the walled hut and aspired to have a closer look. I took him out of the swimming pool but the birds ultimately swooped off. His talk (which really amounted to repeated usage of the word with a pointing gesture) began to prick up the interest of the local ladies in the pool and he became the centre of attention. Will this be the only time that an interest in our feathered friends woos the interest of the opposite sex? I knew that if I strode around the pool in a polyester/spandex swim suit talking about this subject, I would not get any interest except as a cause for curiosity

Monday 29th August 2011

Monday 29th August 2011

We made our one and only trip out of town as we caught the coach to Santa Polo. To Jan’s approval, it stopped next to the town’s Monday market. Amidst the clothing stalls (with the most common item predictably being a Barcelona ‘Messi’ top) we held the boys interest with a selection of the potpourri of sweets on offer. A replacement pair of sunglasses was on sale for five euros. Did I barter, hold my nerve before reaching a satisfyingly lower price to pay? Nope, I handed over a five euro note.

We wandered to the local beach but the sand was too mortar grey for Jan’s tastes. Over coffee in a beach facing café that contained (to Sam’s delight) an in house budgie, Jan expressed withering disdain for what the place had to offer. The café manager pointed us to the centre and the place eventually unfurled a bit more attractively. At a pavement café, we had a pizza which was a little oily on top. We sought to visit the town’s aquarium but found it to be closed between 1 & 6 (perhaps the fish needed longer siestas). Weighed down by the pizza, we made a fraught run for the bus back to GA before the buses themselves took their own afternoon break for the day. The coach was fortuitously late. Hot and bothered, Sam wriggled and raged on board and we were glad to be dropped off at the unshadowed, hot and humid Gran Alicante for the less wearing ten minute walk back.

Tuesday 30th August 2011

I went with Sam to the GA Centre and took in one final impression of the town. It is a modern, computer designed centre, looking like one of those proposed town planner’s sketches made real. There would be no aromas, street entertainers or cavernous drinking dens here. Amidst the prosperous looking shops sticking out like a sore thumb was one with beach gear stacked high outside offering inflatables, buckets and spades to the brash seaside crew. This place, at least, offered the people what they may want; the shops were generally empty, and a month on brings sad news of the closure of the centre’s off license, tapas bar, boutique and butcher’s shop. The blame can't be laid at our door – unlike Saturday night’s restaurant neither Jan or I set foot in any of these establishments.

I bought some groceries, had a drink, withdrew some money then took the road train back. As it went on its longer loop journey home Spanish pop music was played (which is bearable – I would happily listen to Spanish pop if I lived in sunnier climes). Between songs, there would be occasional voice overs highlighting a place where we were approaching. The odd British bar was advertised with the backing brass theme of Coronation Street which sounded inappropriately melancholy in this most un Salford of weather.

Wednesday 31st August 2011

There were storms overnight which sent the air conditioning and other electricity teetering on the brink. The swimming pool security system broke down and the entrance was wrenched open for the day.

After last night’s downpour, there was, by now, a lot of water on the top of the outdoor canopy. Sylvester, the man with the ladder, had remained elusive. However, perhaps reinvigorated by the fresh air that followed a storm, we felt able to tackle this problem again. I put a towel on a wet window ledge, stood on it and, with the pole hook, was able to direct the looping rope downwards. We were able to haul back the canopy, pouring last night’s rain collection on the tiles below with a splat. It was a relief to have this problem out of the way. No payment to the owners required for damages (the offer to pay for a replacement egg up was waved off).

Thursday 1st September 2011

I found the Gran Alicante market this morning after talking to a couple in L’Espigo who had, in their possession, a bag of bulbous grapes. Unlike Monday’s market, this had stalls of spruce local fresh fruit and vegetables. I bought some freshly pressed orange juice (none for Sam who’s bot is still heeling). There was a stall with those staples of Spanish markets – car stickers of UK football shirted donned shaven head rascals peeing on a rival team’s football shirt. I found myself looking for my team as if I was going to boorishly put one on our car back home. Amidst the stalls, there were some beggars, if that’s the right word – middle aged ladies, heads bowed with a notice asking for help for a hospital operation that they haven’t got money for. They were hardly in rags but as our tourist books advised us the Spanish are a proud people.

We went to the Municipal park, then went back to the house. Later, I was to go back up the hill to a cashpoint machine in the sweltering midday heat when we realised that we didn’t have enough money to pay for the cleaner and taxi fare. I waved to the staff at L’Espigo for the last time. We had an early meal and set about packing everything for the flight tomorrow.

Friday 2nd September 2011


The remainder of our bags were packed and loaded by the door. I took the recycling to the road lined skips. Jan cleaned the house then left £30 Euros for the cleaner which, after the extensive clean already done, looks nice work if you can get it.

On the plane back, we entered some clouds where a storm was brewing up. The plane dropped somewhat to audible gasps. Ed was unphased; Sam carried on lobbing books. Back in Manchester, we got the taxi to our house. When we got out the car, the penny dropped for Ed and he burst in to tears. ‘Go to Spain’, he said.